Night
by The Child of Time
Summary: "More slowly than usual, slender fingers typed out a message. One finger hovered over the 'send' button before finally pressing down on it." POST REICHENBACH FALL. Sherlock is bored. Slight Johnlock if you squint, I suppose, but more friendship.


**A/N: First things first: I'm terrified to post this because I'm fairly certain it completely sucks, I just wrote it at 6 AM, and both John and Sherlock are out of character. This is also my first attempt at writing Sherlock fanfiction. **

**That being said, this story was based off of a prompt from a friend: Night**

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><p>Sherlock glanced down at his phone, a disposable and untraceable one he had picked up only hours before. Despite what he had initially thought, given Mycroft's description of all the precautions that would have to be taken, pretending to be dead was, well…boring. Honestly, he wanted nothing more than to be back at 221B Baker Street shooting holes into the smiley face drawn on the wall of the flat he shared with John.<p>

John. Poor John. Had John figured out by now that this was a hoax, or was he still under the impression that Sherlock was actually dead? And if he did still believe the detective to be dead, how was he handling this? The former army doctor had nerves of steel, but also a compassionate heart. He missed the war, but not the damage a war could cause. The fact that his flat mate had night terrors the first few weeks after moving in did not go unnoticed by the consulting detective.

So was John coping and moving on, figuring that the world losing a sociopath was not that big of a deal, or was he genuinely grieving Sherlock's death? Frowning, the man found himself torn between which he preferred. His admittedly large ego would like some acknowledgement; being John's friend, however, he did not want to be the source of any of John's pain. Ah, well, maybe John had found a boring teacher girlfriend to take his mind off of things. Somehow that thought did not help matters.

Which brought him back to the mobile phone in his hand that while disposable and untraceable was not entirely safe to use in his situation. Buying it had been a rather impulsive decision, but what else is one supposed to do at two o'clock in the morning with no Nicotine patches to keep one's mind clear? Mycroft had explicitly stated that John could not know Sherlock was alive because despite Sherlock's protests and claims that John was the most trustworthy man on earth, it would compromise the project. The younger brother was still pouty and stubborn over this, trying to think of a way to subtly let John realize on his _own_ that Sherlock was alive.

Sherlock's mind drifted to a text he had received some time ago now. Brief, and come to think of it, rather rude, but it had gotten the point across. Would John remember that text? He had been present when the text was sent… Signing the text with his customary –SH was out of the question right now, so he would have to trust John's memory on this one. More slowly than usual, slender fingers typed out a message. One finger hovered over the 'send' button before finally pressing down on it.

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><p>Across the country, a mobile phone vibrated on a table, somehow maneuvering it's way over to a cup of tea, which it proceeded to unceremoniously knock over. A disgruntled man muttered a string of curse words before tossing his now tea soaked paper across his flat. His evenings, or mornings really, (it was two AM) were not particularly <em>pleasant<em> these days, but having his paper ruined by a bloody text message was a new low. With his luck, it would be Harry asking if he was _sure_he didn't want to join her for drinks at her new favourite club.

Sighing, John grabbed his cane, a new purchase that Mrs. Hudson still tsked over, from its resting position against the table, and stood up. He walked across the flat and glared at a skull that for god knows what reason he allowed to stay on the mantle place. Tempting as it was to chuck the thing across the damn room, there was a voice in the back of his head, sounding perfectly low and methodical like his deceased friend, that advised him against it.

"The skull did not do anything to you, John. He was here before you and helped me solve more cases than you did. Show some respect, for god's sake."

John rubbed his eyes. This was ridiculous. He felt like he was living in a shrine to Sherlock Holmes. He couldn't afford to move out unless he sucked up his pride and took Harry up on her offer and Mycroft refused to take any of Sherlock's things, which just seemed odd but at the same time, typical Holmes. The phone vibrated again, interrupting John's thoughts.

"Damn it, Harry," John said a bit too aggressively, cane abandoned in his dash back to the table, "I _told_ you, I'm fine!"

He picked up the phone and roughly pushed the button to see his new messages. The number didn't look familiar, which automatically sent fear through him. Killers, stalkers, criminal mastermind—His train of thought stopped when he read the most recently sent text message.

_Don't ignore me. What, do I have to say "danger" to get your attention? Some appreciation would be nice. _

Refusing to let himself get his hopes up, John scrolled down to the first message from the unknown number:

_I'm alive. Let's have dinner. _

Mycroft said Addler was dead and the only other person who knew about that text message was….John swallowed back the lump in his throat and clumsily texted back one word.

_Where?_

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><p><strong>Reviews are awesome, even if you're telling me how much I butchered the characters! <strong>


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